Angel in Witch's Dress

Angel in Witch’s Dress

I pissed all over myself. And who wouldn’t do the same in my place? About to attempt the most brazen act of my short 20 years, my entire body trembled with fear. I wiped some of the yellow stream off my prison issue orange jumpsuit and backed out of the toilet stall in the Kent County Hospital. I was handcuffed in front and that didn’t help the situation. Orange was the chosen color for those of us housed in maximum security. That day I would prove that the prison classification system was on target.

On paper, I was a murderer; tried and convicted a few years before. I got life instead of death by hanging. Most inside the walls said I was lucky. But two years of prison existence, two years of those “people” in there with me and the good ole boy assholes who called themselves corrections officers had left me in despair. Bad enough that I was willing to be a “stand up guy” and not testify against my then-friend, Dick, who had murdered a woman after we burglarized her home , I was now stuck serving life for something I didn’t do. Twelve grim-faced jurors had declared me an accomplice to her murder.

Never, in my imagination could I have worked up a more bizarre scenario. Dick, on speed, senselessly shot the woman while I waited outside in the truck full of loot, stolen antique rifles. She had apparently surprised him, coming up from doing her wash in the basement. Because we were told that the house was empty, we hadn’t even brought a weapon with us. Dick used a pistol that he found inside the lady’s bedroom dresser. The jury found that I could have reasonably anticipated what Dick did and found me guilty as his accomplice. Fact is, I was a dope head who couldn’t anticipate where my next meal might be found. I was six foot four but, obviously, short on smarts.

John “Scruffy” Marin was one of the good guys. He was the guard assigned to me during my hospital visit. He had always treated me well and I wanted nothing bad to happen to him. At the same time, I knew that my sanity depended on my escape from maximum security and soon. I had a plan. I would visit the hospital, claiming kidney pain and lack of sleep as a result. That would get me out of the Cole Correctional Facility, situated in the middle of a corn field, and into a place where I could get some extra help with my scheme. As I exited the toilet stall that day, I knew that the next step would be critical. Scruffy leaned comfortably against the far wall, his belly hanging over a belt that supported a pistol holstered at his side. I walked over to the sink to wash my hands.

After finishing at the sink, I pulled a few paper towels from the dispenser, hoping that my helpers had done their job. A few seconds of wiping with the paper towels and I leaned over the trash can and threw them in…along with my ring. “God damn it, Scruffy,” I grumbled. “I lost my ring in the can here. Can I just pull this top off and get it?” My guard, still leaning on the wall, just nodded. “Sure, Bobby. Get your damn ring cause I’m not reaching in there.”

When I reached the bottom of the can, I knew all hell was gonna break loose. I wrapped my right hand around the handle of a .38 special that had been planted there for me. When I raised up and pointed its long barrel directly at Scruffy’s face, I thought he was gonna need the toilet paper right then. He babbled “Bobby, damn it. No need to get crazy, boy. Take my gun, man. Just don’t shoot me.” He raised his shaking hands in the air before I said a word and turned his back to me, unfastening his holster clip. “Put the handcuff key up on the fuckin’ sink, Scruff”, I barked at his face. He complied, softly mumbling, “Jesus Christ, Bobby.” I unlocked my cuffs, ordered him to turn around again and used them to handcuff him to a metal safety bar attached to the tiled wall. “Just keep your mouth shut for ten minutes and you won’t get hurt”, I warned him. His face told me I had no need to worry.

I ran down the hospital hallway, thankful that my legs hadn’t been chained at the ankles. There was screaming at the nurses’ station as I fled to the elevator. It echoed down the narrow corridor. Over my shoulder, I saw one nurse pick up the phone and I knew I had little time to make my getaway. I held the .38 high in my right hand as I ran outside and down the 10th Street hill toward Washington. A few shots rang out from behind me and it was clear that the other guards knew what was up. I fired off a few warning shots into the air myself as my right calf began burning. I’d been hit. Fortunately, I was turning the corner at Washington and there she was, seated there waiting for me behind the wheel. I hobbled into the passenger’s seat and she floored the gas pedal sending us through a red light and down Washington Street toward the interstate. Wearing a jet black wig that hung down over her shoulders and a hippie dress that flowed down to the floor, my driver looked like a Halloween witch. I wanted to laugh in spite of the pain radiating up my right leg. Speeding south down 1-95, she finally turned toward me and I felt the depth of love in her eyes. “How are you doing, sweetheart?”, she asked. I grimaced over the pain but forced a thin smile for her anyway.

I wish this story would end with my capture thirty years later because I was featured on America’s Most Wanted. And I wish that I had married, had a few kids and celebrated the past thirty Christmases like the rest of the world, sitting in front of a warm fireplace appreciating life. But that’s not the way it is; not how it all unfolded for me. No, strangely enough, this is a story of a mother’s love, my mother. She was left alone to raise me and did her best. She was a pie baking, home loving woman who had never done anything wrong….until I asked her. Mom drove that getaway car for me thirty years ago because, in tears and behind bars, I had begged her to. She skillfully eluded city, county and state police patrols during my escape and drove me over the border into the State of Maryland. There, she helped me to the attic of an old family farm that hadn’t been occupied for a few years. She cleaned up my leg wound and promised not to alert the police by returning. Somehow, the state police showed up five days later anyway. They pulled back a mattress in the attic and found me, quivering with cold and fear. The cop who pulled back the mattress told me later that he nearly shot me out of surprise at his discovery. It might have been better if he had.

Mom died while I was serving my life sentence. Permission to attend her funeral was denied because of my escape. I wept for two full days and nights when I heard of her passing. Today is Mother’s Day and I have full privileges again here in prison. I teach other inmates computer skills, I contribute my art work to various public causes on the outside and I have come to accept life as it is. But I will forever worship and honor the memory of Mom each day of the year and not just on Mothers Day. She made an incredible effort to change things for me; to better my miserable life while risking her own.

If the past thirty years have done anything for me, it has been to allow me to focus on her love and mother’s devotion; an angel in witch’s dress.

Angel in Witch’s Dress

I pissed all over myself. And who wouldn’t do the same in my place? About to attempt the most brazen act of my short 20 years, my entire body trembled with fear. I wiped some of the yellow stream off my prison issue orange jumpsuit and backed out of the toilet stall in the Kent County Hospital. I was handcuffed in front and that didn’t help the situation. Orange was the chosen color for those of us housed in maximum security. That day I would prove that the prison classification system was on target.

On paper, I was a murderer; tried and convicted a few years before. I got life instead of death by hanging. Most inside the walls said I was lucky. But two years of prison existence, two years of those “people” in there with me and the good ole boy assholes who called themselves corrections officers had left me in despair. Bad enough that I was willing to be a “stand up guy” and not testify against my then-friend, Dick, who had murdered a woman after we burglarized her home , I was now stuck serving life for something I didn’t do. Twelve grim-faced jurors had declared me an accomplice to her murder.

Never, in my imagination could I have worked up a more bizarre scenario. Dick, on speed, senselessly shot the woman while I waited outside in the truck full of loot, stolen antique rifles. She had apparently surprised him, coming up from doing her wash in the basement. Because we were told that the house was empty, we hadn’t even brought a weapon with us. Dick used a pistol that he found inside the lady’s bedroom dresser. The jury found that I could have reasonably anticipated what Dick did and found me guilty as his accomplice. Fact is, I was a dope head who couldn’t anticipate where my next meal might be found. I was six foot four but, obviously, short on smarts.

John “Scruffy” Marin was one of the good guys. He was the guard assigned to me during my hospital visit. He had always treated me well and I wanted nothing bad to happen to him. At the same time, I knew that my sanity depended on my escape from maximum security and soon. I had a plan. I would visit the hospital, claiming kidney pain and lack of sleep as a result. That would get me out of the Cole Correctional Facility, situated in the middle of a corn field, and into a place where I could get some extra help with my scheme. As I exited the toilet stall that day, I knew that the next step would be critical. Scruffy leaned comfortably against the far wall, his belly hanging over a belt that supported a pistol holstered at his side. I walked over to the sink to wash my hands.

After finishing at the sink, I pulled a few paper towels from the dispenser, hoping that my helpers had done their job. A few seconds of wiping with the paper towels and I leaned over the trash can and threw them in…along with my ring. “God damn it, Scruffy,” I grumbled. “I lost my ring in the can here. Can I just pull this top off and get it?” My guard, still leaning on the wall, just nodded. “Sure, Bobby. Get your damn ring cause I’m not reaching in there.”

When I reached the bottom of the can, I knew all hell was gonna break loose. I wrapped my right hand around the handle of a .38 special that had been planted there for me. When I raised up and pointed its long barrel directly at Scruffy’s face, I thought he was gonna need the toilet paper right then. He babbled “Bobby, damn it. No need to get crazy, boy. Take my gun, man. Just don’t shoot me.” He raised his shaking hands in the air before I said a word and turned his back to me, unfastening his holster clip. “Put the handcuff key up on the fuckin’ sink, Scruff”, I barked at his face. He complied, softly mumbling, “Jesus Christ, Bobby.” I unlocked my cuffs, ordered him to turn around again and used them to handcuff him to a metal safety bar attached to the tiled wall. “Just keep your mouth shut for ten minutes and you won’t get hurt”, I warned him. His face told me I had no need to worry.

I ran down the hospital hallway, thankful that my legs hadn’t been chained at the ankles. There was screaming at the nurses’ station as I fled to the elevator. It echoed down the narrow corridor. Over my shoulder, I saw one nurse pick up the phone and I knew I had little time to make my getaway. I held the .38 high in my right hand as I ran outside and down the 10th Street hill toward Washington. A few shots rang out from behind me and it was clear that the other guards knew what was up. I fired off a few warning shots into the air myself as my right calf began burning. I’d been hit. Fortunately, I was turning the corner at Washington and there she was, seated there waiting for me behind the wheel. I hobbled into the passenger’s seat and she floored the gas pedal sending us through a red light and down Washington Street toward the interstate. Wearing a jet black wig that hung down over her shoulders and a hippie dress that flowed down to the floor, my driver looked like a Halloween witch. I wanted to laugh in spite of the pain radiating up my right leg. Speeding south down 1-95, she finally turned toward me and I felt the depth of love in her eyes. “How are you doing, sweetheart?”, she asked. I grimaced over the pain but forced a thin smile for her anyway.

I wish this story would end with my capture thirty years later because I was featured on America’s Most Wanted. And I wish that I had married, had a few kids and celebrated the past thirty Christmases like the rest of the world, sitting in front of a warm fireplace appreciating life. But that’s not the way it is; not how it all unfolded for me. No, strangely enough, this is a story of a mother’s love, my mother. She was left alone to raise me and did her best. She was a pie baking, home loving woman who had never done anything wrong….until I asked her. Mom drove that getaway car for me thirty years ago because, in tears and behind bars, I had begged her to. She skillfully eluded city, county and state police patrols during my escape and drove me over the border into the State of Maryland. There, she helped me to the attic of an old family farm that hadn’t been occupied for a few years. She cleaned up my leg wound and promised not to alert the police by returning. Somehow, the state police showed up five days later anyway. They pulled back a mattress in the attic and found me, quivering with cold and fear. The cop who pulled back the mattress told me later that he nearly shot me out of surprise at his discovery. It might have been better if he had.

Mom died while I was serving my life sentence. Permission to attend her funeral was denied because of my escape. I wept for two full days and nights when I heard of her passing. Today is Mother’s Day and I have full privileges again here in prison. I teach other inmates computer skills, I contribute my art work to various public causes on the outside and I have come to accept life as it is. But I will forever worship and honor the memory of Mom each day of the year and not just on Mothers Day. She made an incredible effort to change things for me; to better my miserable life while risking her own.

If the past thirty years have done anything for me, it has been to allow me to focus on her love and mother’s devotion; an angel in witch’s dress.

Story ID:	4097
Written by:	jim rambo (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Biography
Location:	Wilmington Delaware U.S.A.
Year:	1981
Person:	Prisoner